Jam is Delicious, You Must Eat, Eat, Eat
by Lawrence Vivisected
Summary: Rue Ryuuzaki had to be the most condescending little **** Nny ever had the displeasure of meeting. Death Note/JTHM crossover. Disturbing references to BBxL. Because B is an L-sexual. :D Crack. Complete crack.
1. Friends Forevar

Title:  Jam is Delicious, You Must Eat Eat Eat

Disclaimer:  If I owned JTHM and Death Note…well…I don't know what I'd do, but it sure would be pretty dandy.

Genre:  Crack

Sugar Consumed:  0 grams

poop emphasis.

Summary:  Rue Ryuuzaki had to be the most condescending little shit Nny ever had the displeasure of meeting.  Death Note/JTHM crossover.  Disturbing references to BBxL.  Because B is an L-sexual.  :D

Little Note:  I wasn't going to post this, but a conversation on the LJ Death Note Capslock community prompted me to do so.  Edited March 25th to fix Johnny's "last name."

Chapter 1:  Friends Forevar!!111

            It had been a long-established fact that Johnny C. did not like people.  Instantly, from the sound of his or her voice, from the way they talked to and looked at him, Johnny could tell he was not going to like whichever organism he was, at that instant, interacting with.  Perhaps the cause of this conviction was his glands.  Perhaps it was a smell said person was emanating.  Or perhaps Johnny was an arrogant puissant who chose to believe no such person was entitled to a second chance to be welcomed into his good graces. 

            Whatever the reason, when Nny had to wait in line at the local 24/7 behind a shrieking young man, he knew some nameless person was soon to be added to his shit list…and, soon enough, to the growing mass of bodies in the underground tunnel.

            Surprise, surprise.

            "WHERE IS THE JAM?!" the boy (who couldn't be older than eighteen years) demanded, slapping his hand on the counter.  His eyes were wild, literally red with rage and fu-

            Whoa.  Shit.  They _were_ red.  And swirly.  Those were some crazy lens.

            The clerk stared at the boy with severe distaste, eyeing his inky-black shock of mussed hair closely.  "Sir," he said tiredly, "please calm yourself.  I am sure—"

            "Jam.  Jam.  Jam, jam, jam, j-j-j-jam it in."

            "—we will be restocked in jam tom—"

            "PUT YOUR PEN0R TO MY VAG00 AND—"

            "—orrow."

            "--J-J-J-JAM IT IN."

            Nny had been a loyal shopper at 24/7 for several years.  He had seen clerks come and go.  He had been the reason behind their coming and going.  He had first-hand experiences with their crabby, grumpy attitudes.

            This was the first time in his life he felt sorry for one.

            The clerk seemed just about to collapse onto the counter and cry.  It being 3:00 AM on a Friday that could have been spent drinking, smoking, and frolicking with friends, this was quite understandable.  "Sir, please, if you do not have anything to purchase—"

            "I require jam.  JAM, YOU WAD."

            Nny slowly moved to hide his plastic basket of jam jars behind his back.  Normally, he wouldn't have cared if someone wanted to pick a fight with him.  A few stabs to the jugular normally took them out.  In his rush to get to the store, however, he had quite overlooked the fact he had stuck his favorites knives into the gut of that creepy necrophiliac who had been hitting on him the night before.  Some chloroform, a trip to his house, a few stabby motions and _voila_—problem solved.

            Nny frowned.  He supposed he should be looking into the possibility of seeing a shrink like he had promised himself last New Years.  He couldn't keep resolving his issues in such a thoughtless manner.

            Just then, some stupid, stupid, STUPID man standing behind Johnny had had enough of the boy's flailing and bitching.  He took one look at Johnny's basket, filled with sweet and colorful jams and shouted, "Hey, asshole!  This guy has some jam over here, why don't you ask to take some out of his damn basket?  He's got a shitload!"

            Oh, _come on_.

            The boy spun jerkily around, like a rusty crank.  Saw where the STUPID MAN was pointing.  Grinned widely.

            "Oh, what fortune!  Sir, I would be glad to take some of those off your hands."

            The clerk gave Johnny a pleading look.  Johnny was about to acquiesce on the behalf of the harried guy, when he noticed his lazy eye.  He did not like lazy eyes.

            "No."

            As the wretched employee began to sob, the young boy glowered.  He skulked toward Nny, back hunched, right hand in his pocket, and left hand glued to his lower lip.  He ignored the homicidal shopper, staring down at the red basket lovingly.

            "I will buy it all at a high price."

            Maybe he could say "yes," lift one of the jars to the boy's face, allowing him to view his precious treat…and then smash the glass right on top of his head.  He'd say something cool, like, "I hope you enjoy that," pay for his goods, and walk out of there with the image of brains spurting out of his skull painted vividly in his head.  That would have been discourteous, though.  And he _did_ say "high price."

            But, no.  These jams were for his tarts:  his tarts for the church social.  He couldn't disappoint all those nice old ladies.

            "They're not for sale," Johnny said evenly, and stepped forward to pay for his selections.  As he waited in ire for the clerk to pull himself together, he suffered the smoldering assault of the boy's eyes, directed at the very base of his skull.

            Shuffling out of the store hurriedly, Johnny clutched the bag of jam jars to his body, savagely protective.  He had no way of defending himself, and that boy was practically on top of his ass.

            No, no—he _was_ on top of his ass.  Snarling, Johnny smacked the youth away from his bony posterior and continued his mad dash to #777.

            Fuck!  The kid had grappled Johnny's sickly chicken legs.  Nny desperately stomped upon the kid's puffy head.  It was no use.  The child's gaping smile remained on his face and his arms remained wrapped around his left ankle, even after Nny's left foot crashed incessantly upon him.

            "The jam…" the boy whispered, "…Beyond Birthday is after Jam."

            With admirable speed, Johnny plucked a jar out of his plastic bag.  "You want your jam?  Here!  HERE, DAMN IT."

            Glass sprinkled in shards and sparkling diamonds in the young man's hair, like crystalline (and rather painful) snow.  He slumped forward, lying prostrate upon the sidewalk.  Little red rivulets gurgled down his forehead along with globs of thick jam.  Nny stepped back, watching the unmoving figure with a mix of disdain and vigilance.

            In less than half a minute, the boy's head popped up, his eyes flickered to life, and he shambled over to Nny like an overgrown spider, smacking his lips obnoxiously.

            "That is some high-quality jam," he stated, fixing himself to Johnny's spindly right leg.  Nny stared, disgusted, at the…thing on him.

            "I'm going home."

            "Very well."

            "I'm going to make sure I tread upon broken beer bottles with that leg."

            "How very exciting!  On with the fun!"

            Well, he sounded so very unnaturally sincere that Nny had to hesitate, searching the comment for sarcasm.  If he found any, he decided, he would indeed drag this boy's rear to his house and perform vivisection.  He detected none.

            He set off to his Fun Fun Underground Torture Chamber, hauling his burdened right leg behind him.  The child has angered him enough to merit some lessons in carpentry anyway, and hey…vivisection was mad cool.

            It was only fifteen minutes into Johnny's arduous journey that he found all pleasure cruelly sucked out of his endeavors to (violently) dislodge the strange little man from his leg.  The trip was taking longer than usual, Nny found, because having an extra eighty pounds tacked onto you will do that.  Nny almost sighed happily when he saw his home around the corner.  Sweet roach-infested, dirt-encrusted edifice:  he had missed thee.

            "Your last name is stupid."

            Johnny ceased his ambling, standing straight and still as a pole.  This child, this irritating ragamuffin did _not_ just offend him a total of five consecutive times today and survive.  No.  Not possible.  And he had said it so simply, as if it were obvious to any bystander.

            The ragamuffin continued.  "It's terribly unoriginal and unappealing in its entirety, frankly.  It hurts me to look at it.  I mean, really, Johnny C--?  _C--?_It hurts my mouth just to say it.  It would be in your best interest to get a name change.  It's such an irritating title."

            Johnny's brow twitched.

            "Just thought I'd let you know," the boy said, sticking that stupid, sticky thumb of his into his mouth.

            The homicidal maniac ran, ran like several cheetahs on speed to #777.  Shrinks be damned, if it was any problem that should be solved thoughtlessly, it was this one.  Johnny, however, spared a thought only to ponder briefly just _how_ the child had known his whole name.

(B.B.A.J)

            "Rue Ryuuzaki," the boy said nonchalantly as he rooted through the bag of jammy treats.  Nny stopped inspecting the body he had hastily shut up in the linen closet, this sudden statement sweeping aside his concern for his now bloodied bed sheets (which he had just washed that morning, damn it).

            "What?" he asked, turning his focus upon the smiley face knife lodged in the necrophiliac's abdomen.

            "My name.  That's my name—Rue Ryuuzaki.  You didn't even ask for my name, you know.  That was kind of rude."

            Nny seethed, jiggling and wiggling the handle furiously.  The man's meatlard was making it hell to free it.  Buh.  Just…buh.  "When someone is screaming about Danish preserves one minute and clinging to you all the way home the next, they're name is going to be the last thing on your mind."

            "Shit!  You got the currant!  The black-fucking-currant!  I'm going to have some, okay?"  And, without being invited to do so, Ryuuzaki popped open the lid, dipped his whole hand into the black gelatin, and began to enjoy himself.

            Nny tugged, almost on the brink of a boring and (he believed) impressive monologue.  He just needed _one _knife.

            Ryuuzaki looked around at his surroundings.  It was a shit hole and a true dump.  He had been used to clutter, having seen L's room before, but whoa.  Whoa.  He would have said something like "Your home has the welcoming atmosphere of a horse stable that has failed to be mucked," but he thought it unwise to jeer the other man further.  Johnny had that look in his eyes, like the time Lawliet had been denied his Ferrero Rochers at Christmas.  Ryuuzaki still remembered the screams that day, the raucous results of more psychological wounds than physical ones.  So, he opted to instead compliment Johnny upon what he had done with the walls, which were caked with dirt, dust, and something that most decidedly looked (and smelled) like dried blood.  And was that a hint of animal shit?  He couldn't see Johnny's expression, but could imagine, from his rigid stance and the way his head swayed slightly, his bulbous eyes rolling madly inside his skull.

            He did it for the lulz.  Srsly.

            Ryuuzaki had no time to be amused about this because he _remembered_.  He remembered what he had missed, what he had lost, what he had fell short of grasping:  he had forgotten to practice.  How could he?  How?!  This annoyed him so much he almost flung blackcurrant at Johnny's filthy walls, but decided that the jam would be better off festering inside his tummy.

            Ryuuzaki took out his iPod and speakers.  "Mr. C--!"

            "Ngh."

            "I have a cosplay event coming up in about a week," he explained, hooking up the speakers, "so I simply must practice each day dancing to a song my group is going to do."

            Johnny twisted the knife.  Fucker was in _deep_—"Ngh?"

            "So, please do not bother me, Mr. C--.  This is very important to me."  Ryuuzaki turned the speakers high, and selected the song.

            Nny would have waved off this comment, would have continued extricating his beloved weapon…except he heard Ryuuzaki say:

            "Ah.  I would like the HaruHigurashi version this session."

            "Ryuuzaki," Johnny said slowly, "what song is it, exactly?"

            As the first screechy bleats of "Hare Hare Yukai" streamed through his speakers, Ryuuzaki thought he felt a bit of a breeze blow past his left cheek and slice the yellow ribbon tied in his hair.  It almost messed him up on a crucial dance step, and so he frowned.

            Funny, it almost looked as if Mr. C-- had thrown a knife at him.

(B.B.A.J)

LAWL, Johnny is enraged by "The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya."  I also see B.B. as a huge otaku so…yeah.

"Fun Fun Underground Torture Chamber" and "lessons in carpentry" Oh boy!  A "Higurashi No Naku Koro Ni" reference!  Who cares?

More to come, I guess.


	2. BADASS MOTHER CHAPTER

**Title:**  Jam is Delicious, You Must Eat Eat Eat

**Genre:**  Crack

**Sugar Consumed:**  0 grams

**Summary:**  Rue Ryuuzaki had to be the most condescending little shit Nny ever had the displeasure of meeting.  Death Note/JTHM crossover.  Disturbing references to BBxL.  Because B is an L-sexual.  :D

**Chapter 2:**  YOU ALL KNOW FULL WELL WHAT THIS BADASS MOTHER CHAPTER CAN DO

Nny had given up…for now.

Ryuuzaki's mad choreography skills had allowed him to evade all of the maniac's stabbing motions and varied assault attempts.  It also didn't help that Johnny would grudgingly find himself dancing to the sugary Japanese pop music.  He felt ashamed and was prompted to sulk on the couch in front of his favorite show.

"Whew," breathed Ryuuzaki, "_whew_.  That…now that was a workout."  He clicked off his iPod and resumed consumption of Johnny's jam.

"Leave," the older man commanded, pointing to the door.  Ryuuzaki tilted his head to one side, allowing it to rest on his shoulder in a comical (yet entirely disturbing) way, as if his neck had been broken.  Johnny thought this a very satisfying image but did not dwell on it for long.  Fan boys acting "cute" only pissed him off.  He pointed furiously to the door, as if this would make Ryuuzaki depart faster.

"Leave.  Right now."

"But," Ryuuzaki protested, "there is too much jam to eat!  I must help you eat this!"

Opening his mouth to retort, Nny was swiftly distracted by the jingle of a commercial for chips.  He, at a snail's pace, turned back to the television.  He mumbled the motto under his breath which, to Rue, sounded something like "taking a potato chip" and "eating it" (A/N:  LAWL).

Ryuuzaki slurped strawberry jam off of his fingers obscenely.  As he licked at them slowly, he scrutinized the Styrofoam figures shoved indiscreetly into a dark corner of the living room, the bunny nailed horrifically to the wall, and the noose dangling casually from a ceiling beam.  It was funny what one could miss when indulging in jam.

"Très moderne."

Johnny gawked at the television, listening intently to Scumby berating Poker.  "Wha…?"

"Nothing."

_"Damn it, Poker, I'll flash your little brother if I want to!"_

Now, Ryuuzaki had been itching to prod through Johnny's privacy ever since he had entered the ramshackle outhouse of a…"house."  He was going to become the world's greatest detective in several months, so he was sure the practice would do him some good in perfecting his…mannerisms.  Also, he smelled cherry-like smells.  He liked cherries.

About ready to dive onto all fours and scuttle around the room with the man involved in his program, _Kimi__ Iro Omoi_ chimed obnoxiously from Ryuuzaki's back pocket.  Johnny shook himself out of his dazed state to glare at his unwelcome houseguest, remembering that such a pest was currently taking up space and air in his precious abode.  Ryuuzaki cursed the timing of the call and held up his cell phone, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. 

'Like he's holding the dirty, tail-end of a rat,' Nny observed.

The boy stared at the number flashing on the miniscule screen.  Shock registered in his eyes for half a second, only to be replaced by a mischievous gleam.  Johnny took careful note of Ryuuzaki's little impish smile (or was that a smirk?) as he answered.

"Hello there, you naughty, _naughty_ boy," Ryuuzaki unexpectedly purred. 

Johnny jammed his nails tightly into the arm of the couch, firing off a glare that clearly read, "If you begin to have phone sex in my house, right in front of me, you are absolutely dead."

That little smile slouched into a frown, and Ryuuzaki's face took on the quintessential expression of boredom.  "Oh.  Hey, Watari.  I thought—no.  No, old man, I'm not going back and that is final."

Ryuuzaki paused, listening in disinterest to his ex-caretaker.  "Put L on the phone," he insisted.  "Then maybe, _maybe_ I'll come ba—What?  Oh, please.  Another case did _not_ just come up suddenly in the midst of this phone call.  Put him on!  I said put him on, you old bast--"

Ryuuzaki stopped his tirade as he was presumably put on hold, and so Johnny stopped creeping up behind him, knives in hand.  As Ryuuzaki stood there, aggravation prompting much foot-tapping and clenching of hands into fists, Nny only felt his curiosity grow.

_I'll bite_, he thought.  Not bothering to lower his knives, he spoke:  "What's this L?"

"Why," Ryuuzaki answered distantly, a dreamy look in his eyes, "he is the tastiest piece of toast ever."

_He sounds like he gets a stiffy from just saying the name, _Johnny pondered in disgust.  Ew.

It was all very well that Ryuuzaki was facing away from Johnny because he did, indeed, have a stiffy.  Ryuuzaki thought about turning around and casually engaging him in conversation just to watch his reaction.  He decided against it in the end, having spied the knives out of the corner of his eye.  He only turned his head slightly to peek at Johnny to say, "Oh wonderful!  I needed some knives to pop the stubborn top off of that cherry jam."

He held his hand out for the knife, still facing away, his arm arched over his shoulder uncomfortably.  Johnny narrowed his eyes, but (reluctantly) gave up the knife.  Ryuuzaki giggled and pranced over to the kitchen counter.

"I like jam."

"I know."

"GOD DAMN IT!"  Ryuuzaki suddenly shrilled into the phone.  "Fuck you, L.  FUCK YOU IN EVERY ONE OF YOUR HOLES, WITH A NICE DOLLOP OF CHERRY JAM IN EACH SO IT LOOKS LIKE YOU'RE BLEEDING LIKE A STUCK PIG—A TOASTY STUCK PIG."

He took a deep breath and smiled.  "Call me, okay?"  He hung up, apparently not taking into account he was not talking to an answering machine.

"I thank you for the use of your home, Johnny C--," Ryuuzaki said, sticking a jam-smeared knife into his mouth.  He sucked it, deep in thought.  "It is lovely."

_Thanks…?_

"It reminds me of the sty I used to live in way back when.  Ah, but it is that smell that brings back the memories…and feelings of nausea!"

Johnny looked at him, then at the knife in his hand, and dove at him.

**(B.B.A.J)**

Ryuuzaki reacted quicker than Johnny had imagined.  He flung a glob of jam into the maniac's face, effectively blinding him so that that knife only nicked some of Ryuuzaki's hair.  The orphan frowned.  He couldn't have his hair looking even slightly uneven. Perhaps he could get Mr. C-- to attack again, maybe swipe at the other side?

"I like your ass," he commented blandly.

Success!  The psycho kicked him in the chest and swung at his head, which Ryuuzaki miraculously evaded by moving to the right at the last possible second.  'Cuz, you know, he's a genius and had calculated the trajectory and force of Johnny's aim in mere fractions of seconds in that huge head of his.

Also, he was an incredibly lucky man.

_Well, this is interesting_, Ryuuzaki mused, lapping at jam while dodging Johnny's erratic stabs, _but how do I go about ending his rage?  _It seemed that the man was a bit more insane than he had thought, perhaps more so than himself.  The best course of action would be to have him tire himself out.

That didn't mean he couldn't have some fun in the meanwhile.

"It seems it is time," Ryuuzaki announced in an incredibly girly voice, "to bring out my secret weapon!"

Johnny stared, frozen in his position, alarmed by his soon-to-be victim's change in tone.  Whoa, what.

Ryuuzaki did fancy motions with his hands that reminded Nny a lot of Sailor Moon and shouted:

"Love!"

_Dear God!_

"Courage!"

_No!  Never again!_

"Hope!"

_That was it_.

"Holy up!"

Johnny screamed (like a woman, Ryuuzaki noted with amusement) and went to dig his cutlery into the boy's shoulder.  However, before Ryuuzaki had realized Johnny had faked him out, it was much too late:  Nny slugged him in the face, delivering a delicious but bony knuckle sandwich straight to the head.

_Subject seems to become infuriated at the mere mention of anime_, Ryuuzaki thought before losing consciousness.

**(B.B.A.J)**

When Ryuuzaki awoke, it was in an electric chair.  It was quite a comfortable chair, the boy realized, and it was too bad that the people chained to the walls were not able to sit in it.

Ryuuzaki wrinkled his nose, the stench of rotting meat and charred skin suddenly hitting home in the dank basement.  There was a 98 probability that they had already experienced the joys of this lovely padded chair.

He regarded his situation with cheer.  Lucky!  He had stumbled into the den of the serial killer that was terrorizing this tiny portion of San Fran.  Now was the optimal time for observations.  He would have firsthand experience with a murderer, something he doubted L (the armchair detective who lived with the very real risk of being killed merely if his identity were to be uncovered) ever had.  Ryuuzaki truly felt content:  a real advantage over his god and hero was within his grasp.  He would not squander this opportunity.

"I smell waffles," Ryuuzaki insisted, because the charred bodies did indeed smell like waffles.  "Are you making waffles?  I would like some waffles."

Johnny hissed like some snake-cat hybrid bred in an underground laboratory that was never meant to see the light of day.  Ryuuzaki would call it a snat.  Or a cake.  He giggled, inciting a glare from his captor.

"I took the liberty of searching your name at an Internet café while you were out…'cuz I figured I had time to kill before you awoke and, you know, I wanted to stare at some YTMNDs.  Anyway," Johnny paused, slurping some of his Fiz Whiz, "'Rue' came up in none of my searches, so unless you have hippy parents or something—DO YOU?  DO YOU?!  TELL ME, FLOWER CHILD—I am inclined to think you are sporting an alias—"

"Googling my name is hardly valid research—"

"—a _gay_ alias."

Ryuuzaki frowned.  He couldn't argue with that.  He was a top, after all.

An aggressive top.

"You're right."  Ryuuzaki's shoulders slumped and he sighed.  "I have been dishonest with you, Mr. C--.  Rue Ryuuzaki is not my real name."

Nny nodded.  "Yes.  I have surmised this from the intarnets.  Now, whoever-you-are, I can't say we'll be meeting again, or even that I'll miss you, you annoying scrap of feces (TEE HEE, I SAID FECES).  But I'm sure you will be happy to know that I will see your bodily fluids slathered onto my wall everyday.  I'll say hello to it and play with it and wow, that doesn't sound right when I say it out loud like that."

_Bodily fluids_?  Ryuuzaki cocked his head.  _He's going to jerk me off?_

"Goodbye, Jam Man," crowed Nny, his hand inching towards the lever.  "Goodnight, sweet prince and may flights of angels…uh…shit on your head or something.  Sorry, I was never into Shakespeare."

"'And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.'" Ryuuzaki finished.  "Listen, Mr. C--, I'm not one for begging for my life.  In fact, I plan on throwing my life away in a few months as a part of my intricate, convoluted plan to thwart the greatest detective in the world—"

"Not interested," Johnny said, fingers clenched tightly about the lever handle.

"Well," Ryuuzaki said, "if I must die, please know this:  my real name…"

The lever creaked as it was weighed down.

"…is B."

The creaking stopped.  Johnny stopped.

"Or B.B.  Whichever."

_Bees_, thought Johnny, panicked.  _Bees_.  _He's filled with bees_.

_Oh shi—_

"Don't," Nny commanded.

B could only stare and blink.  "What?"

"Don't do it!  DON'T RELEASE YOUR BEES!" Johnny shrieked.  He then lowered his voice.  "I'm allergic."

"Ah."

And as Johnny calmly exited the room, mumbling about taping a Twinkie commercial, B.B. realized he would not be killed.

Yes, Beyond Birthday was always a very lucky man.  Except…

…It was four hours later when Beyond Birthday hypothesized that perhaps the maniac had forgotten about him, strapped securely into the electric chair at, what seemed to be, the center of the earth.

_A pity_, he lamented.  _And he didn't even leave me a drop of jam to eat._

B.B. would soon learn that leather straps did not taste as delightful as his jelly treats.

**(B.B.A.J)**

Well, that took a buttload of time to finish.  I hope you enjoyed it!

Bonus points if you get what this chapter title was referring to.

Next chapter:  Protips.


End file.
